Poem of the day

My Darling Dear, My Daisy Flower
by John Skelton (1460-1529)

   With lullay, lullay, like a child,
   Thou sleepest too long, thou art beguiled.
My darling dear, my daisy flower,
   Let me, quod he, lie in your lap.
Lie still, quod she, my paramour,
   Lie still, hardely, and take a nap.
   His head was heavy, such was his hap,
All drowsy dreaming, drowned in sleep,
That of his love he took no keep.
   With lullay, lullay, like a child,
   Thou sleepest too long, thou art beguiled.

With ba, ba, ba! and bas, bas, bas!
   She cherished him, both cheek and chin,
That he wist never where he was;
   He had forgotten all deadly sin.
   He wanted wit her love to win,
He trusted her payment and lost all his prey;
She left him sleeping and stale away.
   With lullay, lullay, like a child,
   Thou sleepest too long, thou art beguiled.

The rivers rough, the waters wan,
   She sparèd not to wet her feet;
She waded over, she found a man
   That halséd her heartily and kissed her sweet:
   Thus after her cold she caught a heat.
My love, she said, routeth in his bed;
Ywis he hath a heavy head.
   With lullay, lullay, like a child,
   Thou sleepest too long, thou art beguiled.

What dreamest thou, drunkard, drowsy pate?
   Thy lust and liking is from thee gone.
Thou blinkard blowbowl, thou wakest too late:
   Behold thou liest, luggard, alone!
   Well may thou sigh, well may thou groan,
To deal with her so cowardly.
Ywis, pole hatchet, she bleared thine eye.
   With lullay, lullay, like a child,
   Thou sleepest too long, thou art beguiled.

Views: 26

Poem of the day

The Coming American
by Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911)

Bring me men to match my mountains;
Bring me men to match my plains, —
Men with empires in their purpose,
And new eras in their brains.
Bring me men to match my praries,
Men to match my inland seas,
Men whose thought shall pave a highway
Up to ampler destinies;
Pioneers to clear Thought’s marshlands,
And to cleanse old Error’s fen;
Bring me men to match my mountains —
Bring me men!
Bring me men to match my forests,
Strong to fight the storm and blast,
Branching toward the skyey future,
Rooted in the fertile past.
Bring me men to match my valleys,
Tolerant of sun and snow,
Men within whose fruitful purpose
Time’s consummate blooms shall grow.
Men to tame the tigerish instincts
Of the lair and cave and den,
Cleans the dragon slime of Nature —
Bring me men!
Bring me men to match my rivers,
Continent cleavers, flowing free,
Drawn by the eternal madness
To be mingled with the sea;
Men of oceanic impulse,
Men whose moral currents sweep
Toward the wide-enfolding ocean
Of an undiscovered deep;
Men who feel the strong pulsation
Of the Central Sea, and then
Time their currents to its earth throb —
Bring me men!

Views: 43

Poem of the day

Mare Vitae
by Pedro Kilkerry (1885-1917)

— Remar! remar! — E a embarcação ligeira
Foi deslizando, como um sonho da água.
De pé, na proa, era a gonfaloneira
— Remar! remar! — a minha própria Mágoa.

E esmaia, logo, uma ilusão. E afago-a
Ao som de fogo de canção guerreira,
Vai deslizando como um sonho da água
— Remar! remar! a embarcação ligeira.

Mas uma voz de súbito. Gemendo,
Sob o silêncio côncavo dos astros
Quem canta assim de amor? Eu não compreendo…

E oh! Morte — eu disse — esta canção me aterra:
Dá-me que tremam palpitando os mastros
Ao som vermelho da canção de guerra.

Views: 40

Poem of the day

Die Trompete von Gravelotte
by Ferdinand Freiligrath (1810-1876)

Sie haben Tod und Verderben gespien:
Wir haben es nicht gelitten.
Zwei Kolonnen Fußvolk, zwei Batterien,
Wir haben sie niedergeritten.

Die Säbel geschwungen, die Zäume verhängt,
Tief die Lanzen und hoch die Fahnen,
So haben wir sie zusammengesprengt, –
Kürassiere wir und Ulanen.

Doch ein Blutritt war es, ein Todesritt;
Wohl wichen sie unsern Hieben,
Doch von zwei Regimentern, was ritt und was stritt,
Unser zweiter Mann ist geblieben.

Die Brust durchschossen, die Stirn zerklafft,
So lagen sie bleich auf dem Rasen,
In der Kraft, in der Jugend dahingerafft, –
Nun, Trompeter, zum Sammeln geblasen!

Und er nahm die Trompet’, und er hauchte hinein;
Da — die mutig mit schmetterndem Grimme
Uns geführt in den herrlichen Kampf hinein,
Der Trompete versagte die Stimme!

Nur ein klanglos Wimmern, ein Schrei voll Schmerz,
Entquoll dem metallenen Munde;
Eine Kugel hatte durchlöchert ihr Erz, –
Um die Toten klagte die wunde!

Um die Tapfern, die Treuen, die Wacht am Rhein,
Um die Brüder, die heut gefallen, –
Um sie alle, es ging uns durch Mark und Bein,
Erhub sie gebrochenes Lallen.

Und nun kam die Nacht, und wir ritten hindann,
Rundum die Wachtfeuer lohten;
Die Rosse schnoben, der Regen rann —
Und wir dachten der Toten, der Toten!

Views: 43

Poem of the day

Epitaph on the Earl of Strafford
by John Cleveland (1613-1658)

Here lies wise and valiant dust
Huddled up ‘twixt fit and just,
Strafford, who was hurried hence
‘Twixt treason and convenience.
He spent his time here in a mist,
A Papist, yet a Calvinist;
His Prince’s nearest joy and grief,
He had, yet wanted all relief;
The prop and ruin of the state;
The people’s violent love and hate;
One in extremes loved and abhorred.
Riddles lie here, or in a word —
Here lies blood; and let it lie
Speechless still and never cry.

Views: 33

Poem of the day

The Last Man
by Thomas Campbell (1777-1844)

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its Immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation’s death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun’s eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,–the brands
Still rested in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some!
Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm passed by,
Saying, “We are twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
‘Tis Mercy bids thee go.
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.

“What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, floods, and earth,
The vassals of his will;–
Yet mourn not I thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang
Entailed on human hearts.

“Go, let oblivion’s curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life’s tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

“Ee’n I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies
Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death–
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,–
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

“This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity.
Who robbed the grave of Victory,–
And took the sting from Death!

“Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature’s awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste–
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race,
On Earth’s sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!”

Views: 44

Poem of the day

Bredfield Hall
by Edward FitzGerald (1809-1883)

Lo, an English mansion founded
      In the elder James’s reign,
Quaint and stately, and surrounded
      With a pastoral domain.

With well-timber’d lawn and gardens
      And with many a pleasant mead,
Skirted by the lofty coverts
      Where the hare and pheasant feed.

Flank’d it is with goodly stables,
      Shelter’d by coeval trees
So it lifts its honest gables
      Toward the distant German seas

Where it once discern’d the smoke
      Of old sea-battles far away:
Saw victorious Nelson’s topmasts
      Anchoring in Hollesley Bay.

But whatever storm might riot,
      Cannon roar, and trumpet ring,
Still amid these meadows quiet
      Did the yearly violet spring

Still Heaven’s starry hand suspended
      That light balance of the dew,
That each night on earth descended,
      And each morning rose anew

And the ancient house stood rearing
      Undisturb’d her chimneys high,
And her gilded vanes still veering
      Toward each quarter of the sky:

While like wave to wave succeeding
      Through the world of joy and strife,
Household after household speeding
      Handed on the torch of life.

First, sir Knight in ruff and doublet,
      Arm in arm with stately dame
Then the Cavaliers indignant
      For their monarch brought to shame

Languid beauties limn’d by Lely;
      Full-wigg’d Justice of Queen Anne:
Tory squires who tippled freely;
      And the modern Gentleman:

Here they lived, and here they greeted,
      Maids and matrons, sons and sires,
Wandering in its walks, or seated
      Round its hospitable fires:

Oft their silken dresses floated
      Gleaming through the pleasure ground:
Oft dash’d by the scarlet-coated
      Hunter, horse, and dappled hound.

Till the Bell that not in vain
      Had summon’d them to weekly prayer,
Call’d them one by one again
      To the church — and left them there!

They with all their loves and passions,
      Compliment, and song, and jest,
Politics, and sports, and fashions,
      Merged in everlasting rest!

So they pass — while thou, old Mansion,
      Markest with unaltered face
How like the foliage of thy summers
      Race of man succeeds to race.

To most thou stand’st a record sad,
      But all the sunshine of the year
Could not make thine aspect glad
      To one whose youth is buried here.

In thine ancient rooms and gardens
      Buried — and his own no more
Than the youth of those old owners,
      Dead two centuries before.

Unto him the fields around thee
      Darken with the days gone by:
O’er the solemn woods that bound thee
      Ancient sunsets seem to die.

Sighs the selfsame breeze of morning
      Through the cypress as of old
Ever at the Spring’s returning
      One same crocus breaks the mould.

Still though ‘scaping Time’s more savage
      Handywork this pile appears,
It has not escaped the ravage
      Of the undermining years.

And though each succeeding master,
      Grumbling at the cost to pay,
Did with coat of paint and plaster
      Hide the wrinkles of decay,

Yet the secret worm ne’er ceases,
      Nor the mouse behind the wall;
Heart of oak will come to pieces,
      And farewell to Bredfield Hall!

Views: 28

Poem of the day

Down By the Sally Gardens
by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
This has been set to music and often recorded. Here, for example, is John McCormack’s rendition. And Clannad‘s. And Alfred Deller‘s. And, finally, Richard Dyer-Bennet‘s.

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

Views: 32

Poem of the day

Oda
by Francisco de la Torre (c. 1460-c. 1504)

Claras lumbres del cielo y ojos claros
del espantoso rostro de la noche,
corona clara y clara Casiopea,
      Andrómeda y Perseo,

vos, con quien la divina Virgen, hija
del Rector del Olimpo inmenso, pasa
los espaciosos ratos de la vela
      nocturna que le cabe,

escuchad vos mis quejas, que mi llanto
no es indicio de no rabiosa pena;
no vayan tan perdidas como siempre
      tan bien perdidas lágrimas.

¡Cuántes veces me vistes y me vido
llorando Cintia, en mi cuidado el tibio
celo con que adoraba su belleza
      un su pastor dormido!

¡Cuántas veces me halló la clara Aurora
espíritu doliente, que anda errando
por solitarios y desiertos valles,
      llorando mi ventura!

¡Cuántas veces mirándome tan triste
la piedad de mi dolor la hizo
verter amargas y piadosas lágrimas
      con que adornó las flores!

Vos, estrellas, también me vistes solo,
fiel compañero del silencio vuestro,
andar por la callada noche, lleno
      de sospechosos males.

Vi la Circe cruel que me persigue,
de las hojas y flor de mi esperanza,
antes de tiempo y sin razón cortadas,
      hacer encantos duros.

Cruda visión, donde la gloria, un tiempo
adorada por firme, cayó, y donde
peligró la esperanza de una vida
      de fortuna invidiada.

¡Ay, déjenme los cielos, que la gloria,
que por fortuna y por su mano viene,
no será deseada eternamente
      de mi afligido espiritu!

Views: 30

Poem of the day

A Lover’s Resolution
by George Wither (1588-1667)

Shall I wasting in despair,
Die because a woman ‘s fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
‘Cause another’s rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow’ry meads in May,
      If she be not so to me,
      What care I how fair she be?

Should my heart be grieved or pined
‘Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
      If she be not so to me,
      What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman’s virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of Best,
      If she be not such to me,
      What care I how good she be?

‘Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
She that bears a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Thinks what with them he would do
That without them dares her woo;
      And unless that mind I see,
      What care I though great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne’er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
      For if she be not for me,
      What care I for whom she be?

Views: 35